


Please Don't Take My Sunshine Away

by Maplemind



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Howling Commandos, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky kind of dies, Character Death, Complete, Gen, Happy Ending, Howling Commandos - Freeform, Hurt, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Injury, Major Character Injury, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, One Shot, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Sort Of, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-02 00:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17877386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maplemind/pseuds/Maplemind
Summary: Bucky is fatally wounded in battle... until he's not.ORBucky is fatally wounded in battle and dies with Steve by his side, the Howlies around them. But Zola's experiments on him were more successful than anyone realised.





	Please Don't Take My Sunshine Away

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published fic, and really I just write to get this stuff out of my head! Unbeta'd, I apologise for any typos etc.
> 
> Apologies for what I've put our gorgeous Steve and Bucky through, but it works out well in the end.
> 
> Possible triggers because of injury detail, heavy angst and massive emotional trauma. and death (kind of). Obviously, none of the characters belong to me, I'm just borrowing them. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

It had all been a blur for Steve. He’d been swamped by hydra agents himself when he’d seen Bucky become overwhelmed and go crashing into the dirt. He’d felt the adrenaline surge through his muscles as he tore through his assailants with prejudice, eyes barely leaving his desperately struggling friend. From somewhere nearby he heard Dum Dum roaring Bucky’s name, Morita yelling for his comrade to _“hang on! I’m coming!”_. Steve had just broken free and set off at a run when it happened.

The shock seemed to hit him from the same moment the blade sank into the brunet’s stomach. The man’s mouth opened in a silent scream, no sound able to escape through the agonised tension of his throat. Steve was vaguely aware of his hands breaking necks and skulls as he tore the Hydra scum off his friend, Bucky regaining himself long enough to sink his own blade into the side of his attacker’s throat. When the agent fell to the floor convulsing, the serrated blade was ripped free from Bucky’s abdomen. For a moment, the sniper’s entire body arched, his head pressing back into the mud. Then his back dropped to the ground as a gut-wrenching scream tore itself from his throat, his hands clutching desperately at the gaping wound in his stomach. With the final agents dispatched, Bucky’s blood is warm as it coats Steve’s desperate hands. He does his best to speak calming words - as forced as they sound in his own ears - and put pressure on the steadily flowing wound, helplessly trying to ignore the choked off cry and spasm of pain is elicits from his friend. Soon there are skilled hands replacing his own, and the whole group is suddenly working together for their fallen comrade.

It took them three hours to find somewhere safe enough to make camp - or more specifically, to occupy. The cottage wasn’t exactly in a good state of repair, but having spent the whole time taking turns keeping pressure on Bucky’s wound as they carried him on a stretcher between them, the commandos weren’t going to be picky.

By the time they were inside the cottage and Falsworth had done his thing as the group’s surgeon, the atmosphere was grim. Steve had held his oldest friend’s hand the entire time, through his forced levity, gasps of pain and rapidly decreasing coherency. Steve could barely hear Falsworth over the roaring in his ears when the Englishman, wearing a grief stricken expression, explained the situation. The words echoed hollowly inside his head; _“I’ve done everything I can, but he’s lost too much blood. There’s a lot of internal bleeding… and sepsis is setting in. There’s no way we can get him the help he needs in time. I… Oh God Steve I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”_

They move Bucky to the only couch, and at first he’s making jokes - _“clearly I’m the most important person in this group - sorry Stevie”_ \- but gradually his Brooklyn accent softens, each sentence taking longer to complete and eventually he succumbs to just laying with his eyes closed, moving restlessly and only briefly responding when spoken to.

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************

 

There’s a lot of things Steve doesn’t know about his new body yet, he finds out something almost every day. On this particular day he finds out that his legs can still lose all feeling if he sits on them too long, it just takes several hours.

Bucky is pale, his skin cool to touch with the exception of his face, neck and chest which are burning hot. He’s barely moved in over an hour, spread out on the sofa with a blanket draped over him, his breathing rapidly deteriorating. The rest of the team are sat around on the floor; some unable to take their eyes off him, others unable to look at him. Falsworth took Steve aside.

The Captain’s demeanor is hard, closed off. He’s had plenty of time to lock away his emotions, stop them getting in the way. His voice is almost toneless as he asks; “How long?”

Falsworth’s face crumples slightly. “A few hours. Gradually he’s going to wake up less and less, and when he does he’ll get less lucid. At some point he’ll stop waking up… Then it’s just a waiting game. He… He won’t make it to sunrise. I’m so, so sorry Steve.”

Steve nods jerkily, before he claps the Englishman on the shoulder and turns on his heel. In three strides he’s knelt back by his best friend’s side.

Bucky’s consciousness becomes more and more fleeting. At first he’s able to make conversation when he wakes, but slowly he stops remembering what’s happening, then he stops recognising Steve, and finally when he wakes he just stares - uncomprehending.

It was some time since Bucky last woke. They knew he wouldn’t regain consciousness again now. His laboured breathing falters, those in the room try not to wince at the wet bubbling sound that accompanies the frail rasping noise. They are all acutely aware that in its final throes, their friend’s lungs are filling with a mixture of blood and fluids. Gradually, his breathing becomes shallower until he has barely breathed in an hour, hasn’t woken in more than two. His lips are pale, eye sockets dark. Steve is knelt beside him, clutching one cold hand in both of his own. He can’t tear his eyes away from the dying face of a man who has always been a brother to him. The rest of the team have inconspicuously moved closer, but without infringing on the space around the two men.

None of the team can hear Bucky breathing anymore, but Steve’s sensitive hearing is still able to pick up the minute sounds; weak, wet and extremely shallow. Steve can also hear the usually booming heartbeat has reduced to a feeble struggle, barely able to keep a rhythm as it conducts its fruitless attempts to keep Bucky alive.

Steve has witnessed death before. He was at his mother’s side when she passed, and had been present at the passing of several of the men he had rescued at the same time as Bucky.

That’s how he knew that the tiny, sharp intake of breath was the final signal. It was the body’s swansong, indicating that just moments of life remained. As tears burned his eyes, Steve gripped his friend’s hand tighter in one of his own and cupped a now-cool cheek with the other, forcing his memory to catalogue every millimeter of his friend’s face - knowing he would have to carry only a memory for the rest of his days.

Minutes passed. The dark man’s lips were verging on blue, eye sockets sunken and skin almost translucent. And yet Steve could still just hear the thready, barely-there beat of his heart. More minutes passed. Then more. The blond man wondered if his friend was clinging on for him. If that was the case, he wished he would just let go - for both their sakes.

Almost as if he had heard the very thought, Bucky’s heart stuttered, trembled… and stopped. Steve fought valiantly to contain a sob; he failed. His head dropped heavily onto the lifeless shoulder beside him. Tears soaked into the filthy, bloodied undershirt. He couldn’t help the way his thumb rubbed across the cold cheekbone, fingers cradling the sharp jawline while he pressed the limp hand to his shattered heart. This was not how it was supposed to go. Steve was always frail, sickly. With every illness, every breath could have been his last. It was supposed to be Steve who lost his life first; no doubt taken young. But Bucky was supposed to live on. Bucky was supposed to meet a girl, fall in love, marry, have beautiful children, tell them stories of his brother Stevie “the bravest man I ever knew”. James Buchanan Barnes was supposed to cry as he walked his daughter down the aisle, and promise the world to every grandbaby he cradled in his arms. Yet here he lay, having given his life for a world that would probably forget his name the minute the war ended.

Steve didn’t have the presence of mind to try and contain his sobs. They came from deep inside him, every muscle in his torso convulsing with the force of the grief being ripped from his body. At some point it got so bad the blond man couldn’t even draw breath - brutally reminded of the days when he was so sick that his lungs would fail him. Bucky would sit by his bedside all night, watching every breath like a true sniper and barely containing the tears every time his sickly friend’s breath faltered. The memory, and the horrific parallel of the current situation, brought the grief crashing down on him again.

Steve didn’t know how long he sobbed. All he knew was that his new body was’t easily fatigued, yet he was exhausted. His head rested on the still chest of his lifeless friend, his eyes closed against the vision of the slack, pale face and blue lips that would never smile again. He was aware that several people had laid hands on his back, spoken words he couldn’t comprehend. Eventually, there were hands that didn’t leave and words spoken in an English accent that Steve couldn’t ignore.

“Cap- Steve. I’m so sorry, but it’s time. We should move him.”

Steve shook his head, his cheek grazing against skin that should probably have been cold by now. He assumed the fever and his own body heat had prevented that one area losing temperature. In that moment he could almost believe his closest friend was alive.

Falsworth tried again. “Steve… I know you don’t want to hear this, let alone think about it, but… we’re running out of time. We’ve got to keep moving and we need to work out what… how we’re going to bury him.”

Steve didn’t bother to shake his head this time. Forcing his raw throat to work, he ground out the only response his broken mind would allow. “No. I need more time with him. Please.”

A moment passed, then “We’ll give you as long as we can.”

Steve was aware that everyone had moved away, yet he felt the presence of their eyes watching him closely. At some point his enhanced hearing caught a snippet of conversation; Dum Dum was expressing concern to Falsworth; what if Steve stayed distracted and got himself killed - what if he did it deliberately to be with the only person he’d had left in the world? Something in Steve whispered that it was an intriguing thought, and suddenly his mind became busy.

So wrapped up was he in his grief and his morbid thoughts, Steve almost missed it. So quiet, so unobtrusive a sound. His desperate mind sought to hear the faint “thump” again, and when it didn’t come, he dismissed it as something a human body must do in the time after it ceases to live. He fought to suppress his rapid-fire thoughts of what else happens to a body in that situation, his stomach turning.

The thoughts were quickly dispatched, however, by the sound again. This time it came twice in quick succession. Then a few seconds later, twice more. Steve felt his mind scream. He pressed his ear harder to his friend’s still-warm chest. Two more thumps. Then two more. And more. Steve’s mind screamed louder - it sounded like...

Unsteady, frail, too slow.

_Thumpa… Thumpa… Th-thumpa…_

Steve froze, his head shooting up from the man’s chest. He couldn’t dare to hope. A hand touched his shoulder softly, a quiet, English voice murmured near his ear “Steve… I’m so sorry, but -”  
So uncharacteristic of him, Steve shoved the man away. Thankfully, Falsworth accepted this as a sign of gut-wrenching grief, and reluctantly retreated.

Ignoring the others around him, Steve pressed his head to Bucky’s firm chest once more. Now, with his advanced hearing, the sound was startlingly clear.

_Th-thumpa--Th-thumpa--Th-thumpa_

The longer the super soldier listened, the stronger the sound became. Steve’s head shot upright again, looking at the toned chest as though expecting to see the beat manifest on the outside. His gaze moved to the slack, sallow face, then back to the muscled chest. He continued to watch, a glimmer of hope growing inside his own thundering heart.

His patience was rewarded by the miniscule twitch in the muscles; the hitch of a tiny breath. Steve felt his jaw drop, tears running unabated down his face. He was blissfully unaware of the concerned, startled stares of his comrades; each wondering if their captain had gone mad with grief. But as Steve watched, Bucky’s breaths moved into a shallow, but sure rhythm. The blue of his lips had receded slightly, the dark void of his eye sockets less pronounced.

Steve sat bolt upright, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s face. “Falsworth, come here!”

Sharing a concerned look with the others, Falsworth carefully made his way over to their leader as though approaching an easily-startled animal.

“He’s alive. I can hear his heart, and he’s breathing. Barely, but it’s there!”

Steve watched Falsworth’s face fall, his devastation showing plainly on his face. “Cap- Steve. I’m so sorry but... Bucky’s gone. If you’re hearing anything, it’s just his body... settling.” Steve was already shaking his head. Not wasting time, he took his hand from Bucky’s face and grabbed the Englishman by the wrist. Luckily, his men had such a level of trust that Falsworth barely reacted to being yanked forward by a man with the ability to shatter his bones in a hot second. He found his palm laid flat against the chest of their fallen comrade, the large, strong hand of his captain pressing down on top. In the insanity of it all, Falsworth opened his mouth to speak.

No words were forthcoming. His attention snapped to the face of the man laid prone on the sofa - so still, so deathly pale. It was the faint punch of a beating heart and the rhythmic contraction of chest muscles beneath his hand that made him doubt everything he’d ever known. His gaze returned to Steve, his mouth agape.

“By God!”

 

********************************************************************************************************************************

 

It took several tense hours, but somehow Bucky’s heart regained its fabled powerful beat - aside from Steve’s, the strongest and healthiest heart in the group - and his breathing returned to its deep, steady flow. He remained unconscious for more than 6 hours, dark lashes splayed across impossibly sharp cheekbones, full lips finally back to their deep pink hue and the faintly tanned skin regaining a healthier swathe of colour. He stirred slightly a few hours after sunset; a light frown forming on his forehead as his hands loosely gripped the blanket and his muscular legs fidgeted slightly under the covering. Steve had been beside him the entire time, with the exception of a few very hurried comfort breaks. He was still beside him when the sniper finally attempted to take a deeper breath. He coughed wetly, swallowing convulsively with each expulsion of fluid from his lungs until he finally seemed to be able to breathe comfortably. Bucky’s hands flexed around the blanket, his head flopping towards his friend and his legs stretching in the cramped space of the sofa. Steve watched his friend’s eyes moving rapidly under their closed lids.

For several long minutes, Bucky danced on the edge of consciousness - not awake but not fully asleep either. It was almost as though his body was completing pre-flight checks; muscles independently contracting and relaxing, senses absorbing any information they could without fully engaging with the waking world. What seemed like an hour later, Bucky finally took a deep, drawn out breath - something that he always did in the few seconds before he woke up. Steve had always found the motion comforting, but now it took on a whole other level of meaning. It took a few attempts - eyelids twitching and half opening in aborted attempts to reveal the orbs beneath - but when the stormy-blue eyes finally fluttered open, the first thing they did was scan the surroundings; checking for threats and assessing the situation. It was a good sign - Bucky’s sniper brain was on duty as always.

Steve made sure to shuffle back slightly; he didn’t want to startle the man he considered a brother by being too close to his face when he finally woke from a near-death experience.

Instinctively finding the surroundings to be secure, if foreign to him, Bucky’s gaze finally landed on the exhausted face of his friend. Steve watched as the stormy eyes assessed his face, then the realisation that dawned with the returning memories of recent events. Deep pink lips - slightly out-balanced by a small overbite - parted with the intention to speak, the only word seemingly supplied by his sluggish brain was - “Steve?”

The grin that broke across Steve’s face was soft. His blue-green eyes sparkled with affection - something the prone man didn’t miss as he locked gazes with his friend, reading the emotions cycling through his eyes.

“Hey! Welcome back.” was all the captain could manage as his hands returned to the position they had been in for most of the night; one on the side of his friend’s face, thumb stroking across the cheekbone (earning a tired smile), his friend’s now-warm hand grasped in his other.

 

 

**Fin.**


End file.
